A Gentleman Undone (3 page)

Devil take it. This was none of his concern, and to speculate so on a lady’s private business ill became him. Indeed it ill became the men at the table who were now pelting Roanoke with crude questions—Would she do this? Did she allow him that?—while the lout deigned to answer only in monosyllables, vague in proportion to the heightened interest, as he dealt out the cards.

Temper sent its warning prickle down Will’s spine. She must be hearing this. She must see first one head and then another swiveling to reappraise her. He could mark no change in her countenance, her posture, or the speed at which she played her cards, but with what effort did she keep that composure while hearing herself reduced to an object for the common gratification of a lot of jackals?

“Has she got a name?” That was his own voice, rising above the others. What the devil was he doing? Did he want to invite the suspicion of the entire company? A slight straightening in Cathcart’s posture spoke of sharpened interest, though the viscount didn’t turn.

Roanoke did. His patrician brows crept a fraction of an inch closer together, then relaxed. “Lydia is her name,” he said, and spun out the next card.

Leave it alone, Blackshear
. But temper asserted itself again, the cautionary prickle swelling to a ham-fisted
glissando
played on his vertebrae. “I mean a name by which it would be proper to address her.” Damnation. He would never learn, would he, what was and wasn’t his responsibility?

“Have you something particular to say to her?” The man looked at him with full attention, as did most of the men at the table now. A charge like incipient lightning thickened the room’s air. Choose the right words, and he’d be addressing Prince Square-jaw at twenty paces.

Wouldn’t
that
be a suitably ridiculous end. Called out over excessive propriety. Killed on account of a woman he hadn’t even got to enjoy.

Ongoing chatter from the room’s other tables shrank to something distant and obscure as the prospect took shape before him. A few insults, none too subtle, were all that was wanted. Easily enough he could probably provoke the fellow into aiming for his head while he sent his own shot ten feet wide.

How badly would such a caper besmirch the family name? Andrew wouldn’t like it, of course. But Andrew’s respectability could surely transcend any number of family scandals. Kitty and Martha were both already married, quite well. He couldn’t blight their futures in that regard.

Nick, though. His second-eldest brother harbored political ambitions and depended on a good name even now to keep up his practice. He’d do Nick no favors with reckless nonsense.

Besides, he had a deal of money yet to win. “I’ve nothing whatsoever to say.” He made his consonants crisp, and held Roanoke’s eyes. No need to back down altogether. “I’m only unused to hearing a lady spoken of in this way, and called openly by her Christian name. But I’ve been out of society for some time. Perhaps the mores have changed.”

“Were you in the Peninsula, do you mean?” A bright-eyed
fellow who barely looked old enough to be out past bedtime piped up with this. “Or perhaps in the final battle at Waterloo?”

One encountered this sort with disconcerting frequency. Men who’d swallowed the bitter pill of staying home—heirs who couldn’t be risked, unfortunates who couldn’t scrape together the blunt to buy a commission—and now wanted to hear every detail of what they’d missed.

“Lieutenant with the Thirtieth Foot.” Will nodded once. “In the actions at Quatre Bras and Waterloo.” If the nickninny wanted to know more than that he’d have to drag it out of him with a grappling hook.

Fortunately a gentleman three seats down had some opinion to air about Wellington, which someone else countered with an insight into Blucher’s actions, and from there the usual derision was heaped upon the Prince of Orange and the usual agreement ensued as to what a bright day in England’s history had been June eighteenth of the previous year. The table’s mood shifted; the tension between himself and Roanoke guttered like a spent candle and was gone.

Will sat back, drawing in quiet, even breaths. He could listen to such discussions, at least. Some soldiers couldn’t. One heard of men who grew light-headed and must leave a room when the subject was broached. Or who flew into a rage at hearing the perdition of battle recast as some grand glorious sport, like a thousand simultaneous boxing matches improved with the addition of strategy, and flashy uniforms, and weapons that made a good loud noise.

“Slaughter,” Cathcart murmured under a mouthful of smoke as he took out his pipe.

And there was that. Those men who didn’t care to romanticize the event must remark upon how “near run” the whole business had been, with the best soldiers
in far-off Spain or Portugal and only hapless youngsters and second-rate officers to fumble their way across the Hougoumont fields.

He’d heard it before. From a friend, it still stung. “A tremendous loss of life indeed.” He steadied his voice, made it low and careless. “Slaughter on both sides, I can assure you.”

The viscount shook his head. “Her name. Your barren nymph is Miss Slaughter.” A card dropped before him and he lifted a corner to look. “Not the most original gambit, defending a Cyprian’s honor, but usually effective for all of that.”

Ah. The mistress. Yes, that made more sense. Seven years he’d known Cathcart and the man had always taken life as a string of great larks; why would he begin pronouncing opinions on military strategy now? “I tell you there’s no gambit.” The words tumbled out with a vehemence born of relief: he felt enough of a stranger already to old friends without introducing such rifts, and he would a hundred times rather argue over a lady than a battle. “Truly, am I the only man in this room with sisters? With any grasp of simple decency? No woman deserves to hear those things said of her.” He couldn’t help stealing another glance, but if Miss Slaughter had heard any part of his ill-advised gallantry, she showed no sign. Deftly she marked another point on her paper and sat back, her shoulders square, her head erect, her gaze, stark and pitiless as a falcon’s, never once turning his way.

Neither did Fortune find him worthy of notice, this time. He enriched Mr. Roanoke by twenty pounds in one hand and thirty in the next, erasing over a third of the evening’s gain. Let that teach him to get caught up in petty intrigues. He pushed away from the table in disgust.

T
HIS HAD
been someone’s house, before it became a club of most lax membership. Walls had been knocked out here and there to create the necessary large salons and supper room, but some traces of the residential scale remained. A drawing room at the back of the second story, for example, currently occupied by ladies who did not care for cards. Will turned away from the brightness and chatter and, on the street side of the same floor, found a modest library, intact even to books. No candles lit, or fire in the grate, but that only increased the likelihood he’d have the room to himself.

A bookshelf jutted out at right angles to the single bay window, and on the shadow side loomed a shape that proved, on approach, to be an armchair. Perfect. He sank into it and closed his eyes. Through the open door he could hear the house’s sounds, all remote and indistinct. Conversation. Laughter. A faint strain of music—violin?—from the ballroom one story below. No doubt there would be dancing later. Just one of those artful amenities that proclaimed this house to be no seedy Smith and Pope’s, but a place of gentlemanly sport. Where a gentleman could waltz with courtesans, and drink himself into a stupor, and ruin himself to the benefit of his fellows instead of some impersonal proprietor.

And who are you to condemn them for it?
He slouched deeper into the chair, folding his arms. It seemed sometimes he’d lost all ability to … enjoy himself, carelessly. As a man ought to do, indeed as he had used to do. Nearly eight months he’d been back in England, turning aside invitations and ducking from acquaintances, schoolfellows, with whom he couldn’t seem to remember how to converse. Only thick-skinned, cheerful Cathcart had persisted, and the viscount had finally prevailed not through the power of friendship but because he’d
dangled the lure of a gaming club just when Will discovered a need for several thousand pounds.

Some hard edge was imposing itself against his forearm. Some square shape in his breast pocket that he hadn’t any recollection of—

Oh, Christ. The snuffbox. This was the coat he’d worn when he’d first called on Mrs. Talbot.

He felt inside his pocket and drew out the box, then stood and reached round the bookshelf until moonlight through the window bathed his open palm.

Such a pretty thing for a man of modest means to have owned. Gold clasp, gold hinges, the lid all enameled with a scene of horse and hounds. Probably it was worth a bit of money. That was why it had stayed in his pocket, once he’d seen the Talbot relations pawing over the other small items he’d returned. When Mrs. Talbot was able to be independent of those people he would put it into her hands that she might keep it for the child. She wouldn’t want for money, so there’d be no temptation to sell it.

His fist closed over the box, and opened again. He tilted his hand and the enamel gleamed as the moonlight caught it just so.

Altogether too much thinking he’d done tonight. He’d be useless at cards if he couldn’t quiet the rest of his brain. He closed his hand on the box again, and brought it back.

He was just stowing it in a pocket when footsteps sounded in the corridor. For no good reason he withdrew to the armchair with its shadows, whisking his legs back to keep his Hessians away from the spill of moonlight. Unaccountable reflexes a man brought back from war. It wasn’t as though the French had made a practice of sneaking up on one soldier at a time. Nor, of course, was it likely that the footsteps, if indeed they were bound for this room, could represent any threat.

Two sets of footsteps there were, one lighter than the other, and unmistakably bound his way. A man and woman. Yes, he ought to have anticipated this. Often enough he’d made like use of a darkened room at some gathering in his carefree days.

Something stopped him immediately rising. The awkwardness, perhaps, of having to explain just why he’d been in here, alone, in the dark. The stubborn assertion that he’d been here first, and why should he have to give way to their sordid purpose? At all events he was still seated, all the way in shadow, when two shapes filled the doorway and came in. The taller shape swung the door gently to behind them, and as the swath of illumination from the hall grew narrower, a green-jeweled cuff-stud glinted faintly.

Roanoke and his mistress. Or perhaps Roanoke and some other woman—indeed that was the likelier case, given Prince Square-jaw could entertain his mistress at home, at his leisure, without need for skulking about. The door clicked shut and Will abandoned the idea of a prompt exit. They could get on with their business and he’d slip out while their attention was engaged. Perhaps he’d make some attempt to ascertain the lady’s identity—for what purpose, though? If the man betrayed Miss Slaughter, that was nothing to do with him. Did he propose to finagle a seat next to her at supper, and drop vague dire hints of what he’d seen?

The question was moot. The pair made straight for the bay window and he knew her by her posture alone. Erect and somehow remote, as though holding herself apart from the very air through which she moved. They passed into the bay—he could almost have put out a hand and touched her skirts as she went by; thank goodness their eyes were not so well adjusted to the dark as his—and the draperies creaked along their rod; the thin
gruel of moonlight grew thinner. Then, silence, save for a few vague rustles. Whatever their next order of business, it apparently required no preamble of conversation.

Doubtless there were men who would enjoy sitting here, clandestine witness to such goings-on. A pity one of them couldn’t take his place. All he’d wanted was a quarter-hour of darkness and silence; now he must tax his weary brain by calculating how best to retreat undetected from this room which he, by any measure, had the better right to occupy.

He’d make his try in thirty seconds. Any sooner, and they might not be sufficiently oblivious. Much later, and he’d be more visible to their dark-acclimated eyes.

An indistinct utterance added itself to the rustles. His hands settled carefully on the chair’s arms and gripped there. Twenty seconds. No more.

Confound these rutting fools, both of them. Confound her especially, for letting Prince Square-jaw make this use of her not forty minutes after he’d bandied her name about so despicably. Did she have no care at all for her dignity? Then henceforth neither would he. No more misguided gallantry for Cathcart to twit him with.

Nineteen, twenty. They sounded absorbed enough. Slowly he eased up from the chair, angling round the bookshelf for a furtive glance to assure himself they wouldn’t notice him.

He stopped, half-risen.

He’d been prepared for something sordid, a brute coupling between an importunate boor and a harlot who’d learned her trade at Mrs. Parrish’s. And of course it
was
sordid by its very nature, this retreat to the library, and Square-jaw himself was everything sordid, with his mouth at the juncture of her neck and shoulder and his hands groping here and there.